“Stop.” I throw up my arm.
He doesn’t stop. The shutter sounds intensify, and I realize my bathrobe has gaped open. I duck and wrench it closed, but before I can decide whether to run and abandon Elvis, I’m tugged against a firm chest. I startle, rearing back to fight until I hear the duke’s deep voice.
“It’s all right.”
Despite myself, I sag in his strong arms. The Duke of New Arcadia’s holding me close. Again. And it feels amazing.
“No comment,” he thunders. His large hand cradles the side of my head, blocking my face from view. “This is private property. Leave before I call the Guard.”
A quick pivot, and cool air hits my face. The duke has maneuvered us back inside into the blissful quiet.
“Oh my god,” I say. I’m wobbly, and no matter how many times I blink, my surroundings are blurry. The duke steadies me, and then catches me up in his arms.
“Wait, I protest. “Elvis—”
“Daniel’s got him.” The duke carries me into a smaller, more private room, and sets me down onto a loveseat.
I tuck myself into the corner and press my hands to my face.
Gentle fingers brush my hair back. “Are you all right?”
I lower my hands and meet the duke’s dark eyes. He sounds so different from before, so considerate and gentle. I wouldn’t believe it was him if I weren’t looking at him with my own eyes.
“I’m fine. It was just a shock.” I gather my robe around me more tightly. “They saw me, though.” I gulp. “They saw me naked.”
The duke presses his lips together and his dark gaze goes arctic. A chill runs through me. “We will do everything we can to stop them.”
“Of course we will.” Daniel comes in and sets Elvis’ cage beside the couch. The cage is covered and Elvis is quiet. After the excitement of this morning, he’s probably sleeping.
“I’ve already texted the lawyers,” Daniel continues. “And the Guard—”
“No,” the duke commands. “They’ll do an official report, and we don’t want this getting out.”
“I called an officer I know. He’s discreet. And we’ll arrange for private security. But the situation as we know it has compounded.” Daniel gives me a meaningful look before darting out of the room, his phone to his ear.
“What does that mean?” I pant. For some reason, my heart’s revving and I’m out of breath. “What did he mean by that?”
The duke shakes his head, drawing a blanket over me. If he’d tried this ten minutes ago, I’d have knocked his hands away and snarked at him, but right now, I’m enjoying him fussing over me. His elegant hands smooth the blanket over my body.
Maybe he’s not a spoiled rich boy. I push the hopeful thought away.
“Here.” He leaves and heads to a small table graced with a tall decanter. He pours amber liquid into a fancy, heavy crystal glass, and returns. “Drink this.”
I sniff it. The whiff of alcohol scorches my nostrils. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Just a bit,” the duke orders, tipping the glass towards my mouth.
I frown over the rim. “You’re bossy.”
“Yes. Now, drink. Settle your nerves.”
“I’m not a child.” I can hear the petulance in my voice, but his orders make me want to argue.
“Good. I wouldn’t serve a child good brandy.”
“I’m not weak, either.”
His lip twitches. A start of smile? “No, Miss Beaumonde. You are anything but weak.”
I give in. He really is being kind. “Just Frankie. You can call me Frankie, too.” I try a swallow, and sputter. The duke settles beside me. For all his lean build and finely tailored clothes, he’s big and heavy up close. His hand rubs my back as I catch my breath.
“More,” he commands.
“You just can’t stop giving orders, can you?” But I obey. The duke remains by my side as the spirit singes my tongue. It burns less going down the second time, and warmth blooms through my stomach. “That’s intense.” I hand him the glass. “Good alcohol is wasted on me. I hope that wasn’t expensive.”
“Several hundred ducats,” he says, the corner of his mouth pulling into faint parentheses before he smooths his expression.
I almost choke. Ducats are dollars. “Oh no.”
“That was what it cost when my grandfather bought the bottle,” he says. “Now it’s worth much more. Priceless, I’d say.”
I must look horrified because he adds, “It’s all right, Frankie.” He raises a hand slowly and smoothes back my hair. “It’s worth it.”
“To settle my nerves?” I must be feeling the effects of the alcohol, because my body feels loose. I relax deeper into the couch, enjoying the solid wall of the duke’s body at my side, and his soft touch on my face.
He lowers his hand but stays close. I’m not sure he even realizes he touched me.
“I’m not a Victorian lady. I’m not going to faint.” I eye the loveseat. “This isn’t a fainting couch, is it?”
A ghost of a chuckle, but it lights up my nerve endings, singing through me like the clang of a bell. The duke’s face is beautiful, lit by a reluctant laugh. “No. It’s thoroughly modern.”
“Mmm. Good. I’m not the fainting type. Though Victorian ladies weren’t, either—they only did that because they were wearing corsets that constricted their breathing.”
“Ah,” he says, so seriously, I know he’s inwardly amused.
I raise my chin. “Don’t do that. Don’t condescend.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. And I know I’m really feeling that priceless booze because I lay my head down on the back of the couch, close to his. When he does the same and turns his head, we’re mere inches apart. His eyes are the color of espresso.
“Do you have a first name? Or does everyone just call you Duke?”
“They call me, ‘Your Grace’.”
“Not, ‘Your Majesty’?”
“No, only the queen is referred to as ‘Your Majesty.’ If I was a prince, it would be ‘Your Highness’.”
“Your Highness,” I say. Our faces are close enough together, I feel the puff of his huffed laugh on my skin.
“Not, ‘Your Highness.’ Simply ‘Your Grace’.” A pause, then he adds softly, “My name is Benedict.”
“Benedict.” I mimic his upper-crust accent. “That’s a very proper name.”
“Indeed.”
A line from a play drifts through my head and springs onto my tongue. “Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?” I quote in an Emma Thompson accent.
The duke’s forehead knots. His breath wafts over my lips as he asks, “Pardon?”
“Never mind.” I can’t help lifting a hand and stroking his face, much like he did mine. His eyes go round with shock, then hood with another emotion.
“Soft,” I say. “Your beard is softer than I imagined.”
“Your Grace,” Daniel calls, his voice breaking through the haze.